Fallout
by Auldearn
Summary: Although he wasn't happy about it - Riggs had made a deal and was going to have to pay up. Takes place a bit of a time after story, Set Up... some references to that previous story.
1. Chapter 1

As was usually the case, Riggs was not asleep when the alarm sounded. Despite already having been awake, the noise still irritated him tremendously. Eyes closed, he turned onto one side, sweeping a hand across the low wooden shelf that ran along the wall by his mattress. Finding the offending object, he resisted the impulse to beat it into submission, instead turning it off before rolling over onto his back. He laid there for another couple of minutes in the dark listening to the drizzle bounce off the metal roof of the trailer. Finally threw off the pile of blankets he was under and scooted to the stairs at the end of the sleeping platform, goosebumps almost immediately forming on his naked body from the cold air. "Damn," he muttered in surprise. It felt practically freezing in his little home. The thin walls of the RV were not used to keeping this kind of temperature at bay. He did have a small space heater somewhere, but considering he lived it California, he'd probably used it twice. Might be time to dig it out. Lights still off, he headed for the bathroom, tripping in the dark over the small throw rug in front of the couch before then tripping over a pair of wadded up jeans, stubbing a toe on the small kitchenette table and then stepping on poor ole Sam's tail before finally making his destination. Shivering, he took a quick morning piss and then fumbled through the pile of clothes that had been thrown into the corner for the past week. Finally managed to find a pair of dirty sweats and t-shirt. He put them on and then went back to the entrance of the trailer, sliding away the heavy curtain that had been drawn shut.

He stared out through the fog soaked glass at the overcast sky. Another cloudy wet morning… this had to be the gloomiest June Gloom he could ever recall in all his time in California. The sun hadn't poked out from the clouds at his little secluded spot by the beach for almost a week and it was getting a little dispiriting. The marine layer was keeping everything blanketed in an abysmal gray haze that seemed to suck the life right out of a person. Even Sam wasn't interested in going outside.

Oh well…. In another month, they'd all be complaining about the hot sun frying the landscape, so maybe the reprieve wasn't such a bad thing. Only problem was that it did tend to make him a little moody… of course, he had to admit that usually it didn't really take much to do that anyway. Right now, there was one thing that would make him feel better, but all the same, he managed to ignore the beer that was in the fridge and went for the second-best thing. Setting up the coffee maker, Riggs let it do its thing while he took a quick shower. Afterwards, turning on the TV, he changed into his usual work uniform of faded Levi's and flannel button-down over the wrinkled t-shirt he had pulled out from the dirty clothes earlier. Martin was on his third cup of coffee and second bowl of cereal when the phone rang.

"Hello ... oh, hey, Rog. What's up?" He balanced the receiver precariously on one shoulder as he attempted to top off his coffee cup. "Nah," he said. "I'll be in first thing this morning. My doctor's appointment isn't until Wednesday and the PT session is this afternoon at 4:30." He gave a nod of his head. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there by then. Don't worry, I'll beat you in as usual. Okay, okay, see ya." He hung up the phone and went back to his breakfast only to be interrupted a few minutes later. A hint of irritation beginning to settle in on his face, Riggs grabbed the phone again. "Hello. Yea, Rog… Okay, sure … I'll go ahead and swing by forensics first and then I'll meet ya afterwards. How's that sound? Okay…" Hanging up the phone, Riggs quickly scarfed down the rest of the cereal and threw the bowl into the nearby sink. Afterwards, he reached underneath, wrestling out a bag of dogfood from the lower cabinet; tried to get it open – a task that wasn't easy considering that his right arm was held captive in a sling. Finally managing to get food in the bowl for Sam, he sat down on the couch and attempted to now put on his socks and boots – another interesting task when hampered by the use of only one arm – when the phone rang again. Eyes narrowing in frustration, Riggs snatched up the phone. "Roger, I'll never make it in on time if you keep calling me this morning."

There was a brief silence followed by, "Hello, Riggs. How's the shoulder?"

Leaning over, Riggs quickly snatched the remote, muting the TV. "Just fine." He frowned at the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line.

"Back on full duty?"

"No."

"When?"

"Doc said I'm probably looking at another month." His frown deepened. "But then I'm sure you already have that information, so I don't know why you're asking me." When there was no further response, Riggs grabbed the nearby coffee, taking a swig. "Who is this anyway?"

"Does it really matter what name I use?"

Riggs sighed. "No, of course it doesn't … so I think I'll just call you shit-head."

The voice laughed. "I'd prefer Dave. I rather like the sound of that."

"Well then … what do you want, Shit-head Dave?"

"Such hostility does not make for a good working relationship." Riggs noted the hard edge that had crept into the other man's voice. "Just … reaching out to you. A friendly reminder… to make sure you haven't forgotten our earlier deal."

"Don't worry. I haven't."

The other voice on the line just said, "Good." And the call disconnected.

Riggs sat there for a minute with nothing but an annoying buzzing noise ringing in his ear. Now he really WAS grumpy. He tossed the phone aside, one hand coming up to rub his furrowed brow. His gaze fell downward as Sam suddenly nuzzled up against his lap. Running his fingers through the animal's long fur, he gave a sigh. "What in the hell did I do this time," he muttered sarcastically. Unfortunately, Sam had no answer for him. Shaking his head as he gave the animal another head scratch, he stared out the door. Would he never learn?

* * *

Roger Murtaugh scratched his name across yet another piece of paperwork before adding it to the stack of completed files that sat on the corner of his desk. He glanced about the squad room, a satisfied smile playing across his mouth. After so much time away, after fearing about the demise of his long and stellar career at LAPD, being back on duty was like a dream come true. So far, their first two months back on the job had been strictly desk duty. Although it was a tedious and yawn inducing of a task, it still made him happy; at least it meant he was back on the force. He wasn't risking life nor limb; although it was a bit irritating as the two had no excuses for not getting caught up on paperwork. And, if he really admitted it, the truth was, it did feel good to get home at the same time each evening – and before dinner, no less – and Trish and the kids were thrilled … yet even with how much he enjoyed the current schedule, he still sometimes found himself wishing for a little excitement to break up the monotony. _Wait a minute … Did he just actually wish for something exciting to happen? Especially after all the craziness they went through apprehending Evanston in Las Vegas?_ Crap. Riggs had really proven to be a terrible influence on him. Speaking of his partner … Roger glanced over at the desk across from his, eyebrows angling downward in worry. Riggs was staring out, chewing absent-mindedly on a ballpoint pen, his eyes focused on something a million miles away. He would occasionally snap back into the squad room, read a report, scribble a signature, or make a quick notation before drifting off again for long stretches of time, deep in his own private thoughts. It was pretty much the same behavior he had been exhibiting from the beginning of their return to Robbery/Homicide and it had gotten only worse over the last couple of weeks.

Roger continued to regard Riggs with an appraising eye. _Poor guy, he thought to himself, he just can't deal with not being on the streets working regular duty. Don't know what in the hell he's gonna do when he has to retire…_ The very thought of Riggs retiring at some point was enough to make Roger give a shake of his head. It was hard to even imagine. If Roger was honest with himself, he had to admit he loved the shot of adrenaline that his partner had injected into his life - had loved it enough to put his own thoughts of early retirement on the backburner - but all the same, he also knew that when that day did come, despite the regrets he would feel, he would also feel great relief. Of course, no longer having that nagging feeling in the back of his mind every time he walked out the front door - the fear that it could be for the last time – would be a great weight lifted from his shoulders; however, that wouldn't be the only reason he'd be feeling relief. Once retired he would finally have uninterrupted time for all the things he couldn't do with a cop's crazy schedule. Time for spending all day in his workshop … fishing on his boat … traveling with Trish … But Riggs didn't have any of that. What in the world would he do to occupy his days when he was no longer a detective? Roger shuddered at the thought then took in a deep breath.

"Hey, Riggs, you still coming over for dinner tomorrow?"

Martin continued to stare off blankly into the distance. "Uh-uh, Rog …"

Despite his answer, Roger could tell that the man hadn't heard a single word he was saying. He stuck his lower lip out in thought then after a brief pause, continued. "Great, Riggs… one thing though… Just remember, it's a formal affair."

"Hmmm-hmmm… okay, Rog."

"You'll wear your tuxedo, right?"

"Hmmm-hmmm… okay, Rog."

"Good. I mean you understand why we have to dress up with the Queen of England being there and all."

"Yea, Roger … sure."

"Oh, and don't forget to bring Sam along. Trish is planning on serving him for the main course."

"Okay …"

Shaking his head, Roger opened his desk drawer, rummaged around a minute until he found a decent sized rubber band. Put one end against his forefinger as he stretched it out taut. Squinting his left eye, he cracked his neck and let loose, a grin splitting his face as the rubber band hit the intended target dead on – popping Riggs right in the ear. Hey, maybe he wasn't the one around the department that was a former sniper, but he still was a damn good aim.

"OUCH!" Riggs spun around, eyes blazing fire in the direction of his partner as one hand went up to rub his ear. "What the FUCK was that for?!"

" _THAT_ was an attempt to get you back here on planet Earth with the rest of us."

"What are you talking about?"

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying."

"Yes, I have."

"Really? What was I just talking about?"

"Uhmm … well … it was …" Riggs' voice trailed off as he tried unsuccessfully to recall their last conversation.

"My point exactly… by the way in case you were wondering, you just agreed to eat Sam as part of the meal for tomorrow night."

"It wouldn't be the first time in my life that I've eaten dog." Riggs gave a shrug. "Who knows, maybe that's something Trish can actually cook without burning."

Ignoring Martin's comment, Roger frowned. "Ever since we got back to work you've been about as focused as a fart. What is up with you?"

"Nothing. Just trying to get through these mind-numbing reports." Standing up, Riggs grabbed a stack of files with one hand and deposited them on Roger's desk. "There. These are finished."

Without a word, Roger grabbed one of the files and opened it, his eyebrows arching upward in surprise. "Shit, Riggs, you really should stay a leftie. I can actually read your scribbling now."

"Yeah, you're a riot." Riggs adjusted the sling; grumbled something ominously under his breath as he headed back to his desk.

Roger gave an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Riggs. It will all be over soon."

Stopping short, Riggs jerked his head around, narrowed eyes focused intently on the other detective. "What do you mean by that?"

"Desk duty." Now it was Roger's turn to narrow his eyes as he picked up on the sharp tone that had suddenly come to Martin's voice. "I mean, that's what's been bothering you, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Okay, _DAD_?" He slammed back into his chair. "Like you said, I'm just sick of desk duty." Leaning over, he grabbed another file and flipped it open. "Just because I have one arm in a sling doesn't mean I can't be running street investigations. I mean, what kind of invalid do they think I am?"

Roger had a good idea that Captain Murphy was using Martin's injury as an excuse to keep the younger detective out of trouble for as long as possible, especially considering everything that had gone down in Las Vegas; but he wasn't about to tell him that. "Look, Riggs, believe me when I say that nobody wants to keep you in the squad room. You're driving everyone crazy. Even I'm about to gag and tie you up and keep you prisoner in the supply closet until we're cleared for being back on the streets. The captain just wants to make sure that you're 100%, that's all." Roger quickly signed another report. "Besides, didn't you say the doctor should be giving you the OK around the beginning of next month?"

"That's what he told me."

"Riggs, that's only eight days away. You can hold on that much longer." Riggs just nodded his head, his focus already starting to drift off yet again. "AND," Roger added loudly, "we expect to see you for dinner tomorrow." He frowned in warning as he took in the expression that flitted across Martin's face. He knew well and good that his partner was about to come up with some lame-ass excuse for skipping out and it worried him. "Trish will not be taking no for an answer."

Riggs sighed in defeat. He had already declined the last couple of invitations and he knew that another one would really start to raise all kinds of questions. Questions he didn't want to discuss even if he had any answers. "Okay, I'll be there."

"Good." Roger gave a satisfied smile and went back to the paperwork.


	2. Chapter 2

Yessiree… it certainly was a lot more civilized having these banker hours. Roger had been home by 5:30 in the evening and was now currently sitting in his recliner, relaxing with a scotch on the rocks and the newspaper. He stretched back even further in the chair, a slight smile playing at his mouth. So, this is what it felt like to be a civilian. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The kids were all off in various directions that day, just leaving him and Trish together – at least for the time being. He glanced at his watch. Almost time to start helping Trish with dinner and then everyone would be piling back in soon enough, but until then, it was just peace and quiet. Yeah, he could definitely get used to this… Another indication that perhaps retirement wouldn't be such a bad thing after all... and retirement would also have the added benefit of making Trish very happy – always an important part of a marriage. Speaking of his wife, Roger suddenly looked up from the newspaper to find her leaning against the living room's door frame, arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. _Shit… what did I do wrong this time?_ Roger quickly scanned his memory, desperately trying to come up with all the relevant anniversaries and birthdays but nothing came to mind as to something he might have overlooked for this particular month. He had taken the trash out that morning, fed Burbank, took Carrie to school … hell, before heading off to work, he even had helped with cleaning the kitchen after breakfast… His mind was a blank on what might be causing the frown that was entrenched on Trish's beautiful face. He gave her a big grin. "Hi Honey, what's up?" His voice was as sweet as sugar in hopes of countering whatever his wife was about to throw at him.

Trish's frown only grew more irritable. Hmmm… unfortunately it looked like his plan wasn't going to work; but then it rarely did. She straightened up, arms still crossed. "The question is what's up with your partner?"

Roger heaved an inward sigh of relief. Oh okay, it was his wayward partner in trouble again. That was good news as he was getting too damn old to sleep on the couch anymore after having pissed off Trish. His poor back would hurt for days after one of those nights. "Riggs?" He gave a confused shake of his head. "What do you mean?"

"I just checked our phone. Apparently, Martin called earlier while I was out and left a message cancelling for tonight." The frown suddenly disappeared, and a worried look replaced it. "I tried to call him back a minute ago, but he didn't answer. I just hope he's okay."

Roger's eyes opened wide in surprise as he set the newspaper aside. "What?! He bailed on dinner again? I can't believe this!" His voice turned into a low growl, one hand curling up into a fist. "I am gonna wring his scrawny neck … he swore he'd come tonight." Roger focused his gaze back to Trish. "What did he say on the phone?" Roger was still furious but at the sound of concern now in his wife's voice, he managed to lower his anger down a notch. "Any details in his message?"

"Well, he said he was feeling sick, that he had a cough and a sore throat... maybe when I called back he was sleeping."

Roger snorted. "Yeah, right." His tone left no doubt that he thought that excuse was a load of bullshit. Surely it had something to do with the younger detective's recent bizarre behavior, not a sudden case of the sniffles.

The look of concern on Trish's face grew even stronger. "What? Why do you think he's not telling the truth?"

"Well first off, he was just fine at work today. And second, the guy's got the constitution of a horse. In all the time that we've known Riggs, the only thing I've ever seen him suffer from is a hangover."

Trish frowned deeply again. "Are you saying that's what you think is going on? I mean, he didn't sound like…" Her voice drifted off for a second before continuing. "He just sounded really tired." Of course, they both knew that was unusual for Martin as well. Most of the time, the man acted as if he didn't have an off button.

"No, no I don't think that… I mean, I don't think so…" Roger shook his head. "Oh hell, I guess anything's possible with that guy." His breath blew out in a loud sigh. You rarely knew what was going on with his partner. "In other words, I don't know anything…"

"Roger, maybe he really is just sick. Certainly, it has to happen, even to Martin."

"I guess…" Roger muttered, his gaze falling to the carpet as his mind searched over the last couple of months. "But I don't think so. If he was really feeling sick instead of just trying to worm his way out of tonight, don't you think he would have called my cell? Not the house phone? He knew if he called the house phone, he had a better chance of being able to just leave a message instead of actually talking to one of us. I think it's some kind of excuse. I just don't know why." He looked back up at his wife with a shrug. "He's been acting strange… even for Riggs…." His eyes slightly widened. "And believe me, as you know, that's a scary thing to imagine."

Stepping into the living room, Trish sat down on the couch, facing her husband. "Strange how?"

"Kinda hard to explain… It's just … Well, Riggs is always as focused as a laser no matter what he's doing but that sure hasn't been the case lately. These days, he just seems either awfully distracted or…" he hitched a shoulder upward, "… or highly pissed off. Of course, I'm used to the pissed off part, but the other … It's nothing I've seen before and just not something I was expecting… especially after finally getting back on the force. He loves the job, I just thought he'd be more enthused... even if we're just doing paperwork."

"Did something happen in Las Vegas that might have upset him?"

"No…" Roger shook his head. "I can't imagine anything that happened there that might have set him off. In fact, other than getting shot, I'd say he probably rather enjoyed himself."

Riggs always did have a very different idea of _"fun"_ compared to Roger's.

"Did something happen at work?"

"No … not that I know of."

Trish looked unconvinced.

"I swear, honey." Roger shrugged again. "What could have possibly happened? It's not like we're even working on a case. All we're doing is sitting at our desk, filling out forms in triplicate, getting carpal tunnel syndrome and numb asses while having to listen to Murphy bitch about the new recruits and his acid reflux." Roger paused a moment, deep in thought, before finally continuing. "When Riggs isn't staring out into space, he's biting everyone's head off even more than normal, but I figured it was because he's on desk duty. When Riggs isn't on the streets, he's even more impossible to deal with than ever. You know how he is."

"Maybe so, but he hasn't been over in almost three weeks. Not once. Not even to bring over any laundry."

"Hmmm… well that explains the same shirt he's been wearing all week long." Roger grimaced slightly, although his voice was laughing. "Sure hope he's hit the laundromat to at least clean some underwear."

If his comment had even registered with Trish, she obviously didn't find it funny. "Well, if you don't think that he was actually sick, and nothing is going on at work …" Trish gave a shake of her head. "There has to be something personal going on."

"I can't figure it out… I've thought about all the different things that set him off, but nothing is coming to mind." One of Roger's hands came up to massage the back of his neck, his expression perplexed. "Besides, you know how he is when something like that happens… I mean, yeah, some of it's the same… he gets more temperamental than ever, won't talk about anything and turns into even more of a hermit than usual... but he sure as hell doesn't wander around staring off into space. It's a wonder he's not walking into walls by this point. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm telling you, this is a different kind of quiet."

Trish stood back up, hands on her hips as she looked down at her husband. "Well, something must be going on. And you better find out what it is."

"Come on, baby," pleaded Roger. "You know what Riggs is like. He's not going to tell me anything."

Trish gave an overly encouraging smile; but one that showed she meant business. "Oh, honey," she murmured, her own voice now sugar sweet, an obvious ploy to get him to agree with her, "you're a great detective." She patted him on his arm. "I'm sure you'll figure out a way." Turning on her heel, she disappeared back into the study.

 _Great, just great, Roger thought to himself. Yeah, there is definitely something going on with Riggs alright_. The question is what was it? He felt sure now that it wasn't just the fact that they were chained to their desks for the time being. A slight frown twisted his forehead as he thought back to his last conversation with Martin regarding his retirement. He wondered again if Riggs was still upset at the thought of when that time would come. Of course, he hated the thought of somehow leaving his partner and best friend in a lurch, but all the same, he didn't know how much longer he could hold out before Trish demanded he retire. God knows, she had put up with a lot over the years.

After bringing it up, Riggs, of course, had then quickly acted like it was no big deal, that everything was fine, that it didn't bother him… but over their time together, Roger had realized Riggs acted that way with pretty much everything … whether it was really the truth or not. Whatever it was, he knew of course that his chances of dragging it out of his partner were close to zero percent; and his chances of Trish bothering him until he had an answer were close to one hundred percent. _God, why did Trish have to be so damn fond of his partner?_ "I think I'm gonna need another drink before I can handle this," he muttered under his breath and then got up to make one.


	3. Chapter 3

The two detectives had had the next three days off from work and Martin didn't show up or call on the day after his dinner no-show. Although she remained quiet about the situation, Trish's upset attitude had deepened over that fact; but when the second day had come and gone without hearing a word from him, Trish began to worry. . And when she called Martin's phone later that evening and didn't get an answer, she _really_ began to worry. Of course, Trish worrying meant that Roger needed to do something about the situation and now – which had resulted in the older detective being in the car, making the long trek out to Riggs's place on the third morning. He had originally planned on relaxing in his armchair or fiddling around in his workshop on his last day off, but the expression on his wife's face left no room for discussion. _Why, oh why, does Trish have to be so fond of Riggs? Why, oh why does my partner have to always give me such heartburn? Why, oh, why didn't I just retire when I had the chance?_ These were thoughts that would cross his mind now and again; especially in situations like the one he currently was finding himself in. He grumbled under his breath as he exited the interstate. _Now, exactly how did they end up adopting him again? …_ His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. Turning onto one of the side roads that would eventually lead him down to the trailer, Roger thought about it for another minute. _It had to have been those damn sad puppy dog eyes… Trish was a sucker for those… Yeah, that was it… They appealed to his wife's maternal instinct._ Of course, Roger knew, despite all his near constant complaining, he felt the same way as Trish. Hell, he could remember like it was yesterday when he saw Martin unmoving on the floor of that cargo hold, the way his own heart dropped, of how he had to stop, hanging back, completely frozen in fear, unable for that moment to go any further as he braced himself for whatever he was going to find… and being so sure he would find Martin dead _._ And if he was dead, Roger really didn't know what he would do. Although sometimes he gave his partner nearly as much grief as Riggs gave him, throughout all of his years, he realized that Martin was the closest friend he had ever known. More than anything, he was grateful that his partner had survived… _But he still drove Roger crazy unlike anyone else ever had... well, other than the kids sometimes… Shit,_ Roger thought to himself as he turned the vehicle, driving down yet another narrow road, the rough, unpaved surface bouncing him around enough to rattle his teeth, until finally, the small RV came into view… _if Riggs kept this up, next time he moves, he'll have to plant his damn ratty trailer on Mars._ He was still grumbling as he parked over by it.

The crunching of wheels on the rocks had alerted Martin that someone was approaching long before the vehicle pulled up next to his little abode. His immediate reaction would normally be to quickly jump to his feet to check out who it was, especially considering few people came down to his spot by the beach. This time, however, he didn't move from where he was lying on the couch. One forearm was resting over his closed eyes; and since the small piece of furniture was too short to completely stretch out on, the rest of one leg was extended over the couch's arm onto the stairs that led up to the sleep platform; the other leg stuck out in the middle of the living area. Martin knew he didn't have to worry about his visitor. For one, Sam who was lying next to him on the floor didn't start his usual growling, instead his tail began to thump in recognition … and two, Martin didn't have to be a psychic to know it would be his irate partner coming to yell at him. And, of course, right in the middle of the program he was watching. Perfect timing. He had been expecting this, but he groaned all the same.

He continued to stay glued to the couch, not moving even when the sharp knock rapped on the trailer's sliding glass door. Instead he just waved Roger in with a quick gesture of one hand, his arm still shielding half of his face.

"Morning, Rog," he mumbled as his partner stormed into the small trailer.

Roger stood in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest, his large frame blocking a great deal of the light that had been streaming in a moment ago. "Morning, Rog!?" The older man's voice was incredulous as he repeated, "Morning, Rog!? Is that all you have to say?"

A small shrug. "Well… it is morning and that's your name."

Roger clenched his teeth together, but it wasn't enough to stop the growl from rolling out. Somehow managing to keep the other growls from erupting, Roger made his way to the nearby TV, trying to stand in front of his partner.

"What did I do this time?" sighed Riggs.

Roger took in a steadying breath, but his voice sounded like cut glass all the same. "Do you really have to ask that question? I don't know why you're trying to play dumb, Riggs. You know exactly why I am here." The detective didn't say anything else, waiting to hear the excuse Riggs was going to come up with.

"What? We've been off for three days, so I've been hanging out at my place. I mean, despite how it probably appears to everyone, I actually do live _HERE_ , not at your house… _THIS_ is my _HOME_ , y 'know." Roger still couldn't see Martin's expression, but he noted how his voice seemed an odd mix of both gloominess and high irritation. The younger detective gave another slight shrug as he jerked one hand upward in the air. "So, what's the problem?"

As a response, Roger twisted around, pressing the off button for the TV; the little trailer suddenly eerily quiet without the almost constant background noise the object provided. For the first time, Riggs shifted his arm up slightly to stare out from underneath it, intense eyes glittering over at Roger. "Hey, I was listening to that!"

"Not anymore you're not."

Sighing again, Riggs didn't protest as he normally would, instead he just continued to lay there silently; the only movement he made was to once again cover his face, eyes closed back up.

"You had promised that you were coming to dinner; and yet, of course, you didn't show. YET AGAIN." Roger paused for a moment, lips pressed firmly together, his dark expression not lightening up one bit. "What's going on?"

"I called and left a message. It wasn't like I just didn't show up. I said I was sick." Riggs gave a sudden bout of over exaggerated and obviously fake coughs as proof. "See?"

"Uh uh…"

Roger's eyes narrowed into a worried frown; again, this was not typical behavior for his partner but it was, unfortunately, behavior he had experienced in the past… and it was usually when Riggs was not in a good place. He just needed to figure out why. Eyes still narrowed, he repeated his comment from just a minute ago. "You didn't show up for dinner and we haven't heard hide nor hair of you since then." Roger took in a small breath, worked to shake out the anger. Being the best of friends and really family, didn't stop the two from butting heads on a regular basis. He knew from experience that the more he yelled, the more obstinate and hard-headed Riggs would become about the situation. And then they would just end up spinning uselessly on that damn hamster wheel they found themselves on sometimes. Deciding to try a different tactic, he managed to speak his next sentence in a calmer voice. "You know how worried Trish gets when one of her children doesn't show up." Okay, so he wasn't above trying to guilt trip the guy, but, hey, with Riggs, Roger usually found himself using whatever he could get to work…

And Riggs swallowed it hook, line and sinker; a fact that only proved to Roger that the other man had something to feel guilty about; and something that went beyond missed dinners. "I – I am sorry about that." Martin's voice grew softer as it faltered. "Tell Trish… tell her I apologize, okay?"

"You'll tell Trish yourself when you come over to the house."

With the camper's tiny living space currently occupied by the sprawled-out Riggs, Roger scooted around him to sit in the chair that was over by the kitchenette table, Sam following behind him. The animal sat down in front of the detective, hoping for a treat as he always did when Roger came around. Sam had an appetite that almost rivaled his master. Placing an elbow on the tabletop, Roger glanced over. The contents were the usual; gun cleaning kit, extra mags for Riggs's Beretta, piles of mail, paperback books, parking tickets – no doubt all unpaid – packets of ketchup and hot sauce from some fast food joint, a bag of biscuits for Sam, an ashtray and an old pizza box – one slice left – along with a couple of empty beer bottles. Certainly, none of that was out of the ordinary. Reaching over, he grabbed the dog biscuits and threw one to Sam who wagged his tail enthusiastically. Roger could have sworn the dog was smiling. Roger tossed him two more. He twisted around, setting the bag back where it had been resting when suddenly his eyebrows raised in surprise. He realized he had to take back his previous observation. There was something quite out of the ordinary. Roger saw that the ashtray was empty of any cigarettes butts and come to think of it, he noticed that the smell of smoke wasn't as prevalent as normal. "Hey, you're still laying off the smokes, I see."

"I'm trying, but I'm not making any promises at this point. Not sure how much longer I can hold out, no matter how much damn nicotine gum I chew."

"Well, I guess that's okay."

Although he didn't look over at his partner or even move at all, Riggs seemed to perk up somewhat. "So… are you saying you won't get pissed if I start again?"

"It's the longest you've ever gone," Roger said as he shrugged. "So, it's a start anyway." He paused a moment. "Of course, you know I can't promise the same reaction from Trish."

Riggs gave a slight groan under his breath. Hmmm… that possibly could be enough to make him reconsider his decision.

The senior detective glanced back over at the table. The two empty beer bottles didn't concern him. It seemed as long as Riggs stuck with that, he was okay. But when the bourbon came out, it usually turned into a whole other ballgame. He certainly didn't know if that was the problem – or perhaps something brought on by whatever the problem was - but something sure as hell was off kilter. It was as decent a place to start as anywhere else. A good place to gauge how badly things might be. A plan came to mind. It did make Roger feel like a sneaky shit, but he didn't know what else to do. Besides it was only out of concern. How mad could Martin get over that? Now sitting closer to his partner, he quietly took in a large breath, trying to smell for any booze. Hmmm … so far, nothing detectable. Not that that necessarily meant anything. He jerked his head behind him. "I'm gonna get a glass of water."

A wave of his partner's hand. "Help yourself. You'll have to wash one of the dirty glasses in the sink."

"Of course, I would," Roger mumbled under his breath. He took the opportunity as he walked into the kitchenette to look for signs of drinking, eyes quickly darting around… maybe a bottle stashed somewhere behind a box of cereal, half empty highball glass sitting on top of the fridge, crumpled liquor store receipt on the counter... but nothing was obvious. Reaching the sink, he picked up a glass, eyeballing it carefully. He really didn't want to think about what the weird crusted on substance was that covered part of the glass and the sink. Before washing it, he brought it up to his nose for a sniff. No liquor smell. Decided to sit it back in the sink and grabbed another one that didn't look like it had just been dug up from the city dump. Sniffed that one as well. Nothing. He scrubbed it hard for a minute. After hoping that any crazy strains of bacteria had been eradicated, he finally filled it up with water and took a sip. Before however, he headed back to the table, he took a quick glance at his partner… still on the couch, eyes closed. Leaning over, he snuck a quick, furtive peek into the nearby trashcan, one hand quietly shifting through the top layer of garbage.

"I'm not drinking any of the hard stuff, Rog, if that's what you are looking for."

Roger jumped slightly, a guilty expression coming over his face at being caught. He looked over to find that Riggs's eyes were still hidden behind his forearm. How did he know what he had been up to? Guess he wasn't being as sneaky as he thought. Of course, he should have known better than to try and pull one over on the other detective. All the same Roger still decided to play innocent. "What are you talking about? I don't think that."

"Hmm hmm… right." Riggs moved his forearm back enough to reveal a sharp expression stretched across his face. "You're just going through my trash for the hell of it?"

After a moment's hesitation, Roger gave a placating smile. "Uh … ya know… Just making sure you're recycling."

"Right, Rog."

But rather than getting any angrier, Riggs just shrugged. He couldn't get mad at his partner. After all, he'd fallen off the wagon in the past and chances are, would again. It was an amusement park ride he just couldn't seem to get off.

Roger made his way back over to the table, taking a seat. "Look, I'm sorry, really I am. You know I don't mean anything by it. It's… it's just that you've been acting different lately." He splayed his hands outward. "You've got us worried."

Riggs suddenly swung his legs over to sit upright on the couch, although his gaze remained focused downward for the moment. "It's nothing, okay?" He lifted his face up to Roger and gave an apologetic smile. "I'm just ready to get back to full duty. It's making me cranky … so I figured it probably was best to avoid people as much as possible."

"And there's nothing else?"

"No that's it."

Despite Martin's comments, something kept worming its way around the back of Roger's mind; something he couldn't quite put a finger on and it bothered him. He knew, of course, his partner was lying – at least partially; but what else was there to do? "You better be at dinner tomorrow," Roger suddenly said, his voice deepening again in aggravation. "No more damn excus-"

Before Roger could continue with his tirade, he was interrupted by the sudden ringing of Riggs's phone. At the sound of it, Riggs seemed to tense up. It was a movement so slight that Roger wasn't sure if maybe he had imagined it; but then a funny look clouded Riggs's eyes for a brief second as they skittered over in the phone's direction.

Roger gestured towards the object resting next to him on the table. "Want me to answer it?"

"No," Martin said, his voice far sharper than the situation warranted.

Roger's eyes narrowed. "Well, aren't you going to answer it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

A grin suddenly appeared. "Well, shit, Rog … who's gonna be calling me? You're the only friend I've got and you're here."

Roger knew his partner's statement was probably true, but he still noted the odd look underlining Riggs' face. Despite what Martin had just said, Roger went ahead and picked up the ringing phone, motioning for Martin to grab it. "You never know, could be something important. You should answer it."

Riggs ignored the gesture, his voice turning snarky. "Yea, you're right. It's probably my financial advisor giving me the latest on the stock market and my IRA..."

"Very funny."

"Honestly, Rog… no one calls except you and the Department… We've already accounted for you and we know it ain't the Department because all we're doing are the shit tasks for the entire squad… not like we're even working on a case. If Murphy thinks he's calling me in early so I can file more papers, he can forget it." He made a vague hand wave towards the still ringing phone. "And if it ain't Murphy, it's probably just some damn solicitor trying to sell me a timeshare at some swamp hole in Florida." The phone went quiet.

Roger's eyes were still narrowed suspiciously as he took in the way that Riggs's jaw muscles tightened up in an effort to control … _something_ … but he just didn't know what that something was. He did know however, that any further conversation would get him nowhere. What was the point of expending any more energy? Riggs was exhausting enough as it was. He sighed quietly to himself. "So, you're coming tomorrow night?" His voice was calm but brooked no argument.

Riggs's vision suddenly snapped from the phone back to the direction of his partner. He knew he had to get over to the house this time or he couldn't imagine what the Murtaugh's would do next – especially Trish. She was like a mother to him and when she was angry … He gave a nod of his head. "Don't worry, I'll be there."

"If not, Trish will drive out here herself and you _DO NOT_ want that to happen."

"I know."

Taking one last gulp of water, Roger set the glass down on the table and stood to his feet. "All right. We'll see you tomorrow."

"All right."

Although he could feel the younger man's eyes boring into his back, Roger didn't bother turning around as he exited the trailer. He headed back to the vehicle, doing his best to ignore the beach sand filling his shoes. Great. On the plus side, he had at least gotten Riggs to swear he'd be there for dinner tomorrow, unless he did a no show yet again… On the negative side, he now had to go back and report to Trish that he had found out nothing. It was the result he had been prepared for, but she still wasn't going to be happy. _Maybe if he stopped by the flower shop first_ … Roger reached his car and was about to open the door when he suddenly heard the phone ring yet again. Giving just a slight turn of his head, hoping he wasn't being obvious, he looked out of the corner of his eye just in time to see Riggs jump to his feet and grab the phone before the first ring could hardly begin…

 _What was going on?_


	4. Chapter 4

Roger was in the garage, down on his knees, two large garbage bags – both nearly bursting at the seams – by his side. He was trying to clean up and rearrange some of the never-ending junk that all garages seem to collect _._ Despite his rather strong anal-retentive tendencies, Roger's garage didn't seem to fare any better than others when it came to order and cleanliness. A fact that really irritated him. _Good Lord, why in the world was this toy still here? It was a car that Nick played with when he was about five._ Sighing under his breath, Roger tossed that one in the bag marked for the thrift store and then bent back down, digging deep into the farthest reaches of the shelf, his hand curling around a can. _Where was this paint from? Had he planned on using it inside the house somewhere? He didn't even recognize the color._ He went to add the can to another bag that was marked trash but then stopped himself. _No, wait a minute… he couldn't put paint in the regular trash, could he? No, no, that couldn't be good for the environment. Trish and the kids would give him all kinds of grief._ Sighing even deeper this time, he decided he'd have to wait on getting rid of that particular piece of junk. The sudden roar of a big engine caused him to turn his head towards the street and he rose up just in time to see Riggs's truck pull into view. He set the paint can he was holding back onto the shelf as the other man parked in front of the house, hopped out and began to stride down the walkway towards the front door.

"Well, well, well, look who's finally decided to grace us with their presence."

Riggs's head swiveled around to the garage. "Oh, hey, Rog." He turned his direction towards his partner.

Despite grunting in response, Roger did try his best to smile, although he was pretty sure it was unsuccessful. After having been over at Riggs's trailer yesterday, he knew without a doubt something was going on, but he figured if he showed it or bitched to Riggs he'd probably turn around and leave. And then Trish would be the angry one – and angry at him.

"Well, SO glad you are feeling better," Roger murmured, the expression on his face now changed over to a pleasant enough one, but there was no mistaking the sarcasm that underlined his voice. "Trish and the kids will be thrilled."

Riggs ignored the comment; instead he hooked a thumb towards one of the cars parked in the driveway. "I see Rianne's here."

"Of course. She wouldn't miss it for the world. Martin Riggs actually coming over for dinner and all."

"Come on, man…" groaned Riggs. "How long are ya gonna bust my chops?"

"Haven't decided yet."

Martin slumped down somewhat as he realized there really wasn't anything he could say in return. He had made his deal. And at the time, didn't stop to even think over any possible consequences. One of his big faults that was often a common denominator in all the shit he sometimes found himself knee deep in. He finally said, "What's on the menu?"

"Take out Chinese."

"Take out? Trish isn't cooking?"

"Not tonight."

"Hmmm… edible food…" Martin scratched the back of his head, his expression perplexed. "Are we celebrating something?"

Roger lifted one shoulder questioningly. "I don't know… Maybe it's for the Return of the Prodigal Son." A slightly wicked smile tugged at the corners of the older man's mouth. "Oh, and by the way, I'm gonna tell Trish you said that."

"Ah, come on," Riggs groaned again, "I know she's mad enough at me already."

"You're damn right about that." He pushed Riggs slightly in the direction of the house. "Get going."

Riggs found himself hesitating at the door, suddenly worried about what kind of reception he was going to get, but Roger gave him another push, hard enough that the detective nearly stumbled over the threshold. He braced himself, ready to expect the worst, but Trish just came up to give him a gentle hug, taking care to be mindful of his still injured shoulder. "Hi, Martin," she said, a happy smile filling her features. "I'm glad you were able to make it tonight." Unlike her husband, there didn't seem to be any underlining sarcasm. But then no matter what was happening, Trish rarely was anything but a sweetheart; sometimes an absolute fierce one, but still a sweetheart none the less.

Martin gave her a smile. "It's good to be here." And although there was a small part of him that was dreading the evening, it still did feel good to be there.

As he walked by the couch, Nick gave him a quick high five, although his eyes never left the game playing on the TV. "Hey, Martin."

"Hey Nick."

Carrie was curled up in one of the nearby chairs, headphones on and an open school book in her lap. Neither Martin nor Roger could quite figure out how she was able to do homework with loud music blaring in her ears, but since she made straight A's, Trish said not to worry. Looking up from her studies, Carrie smiled as she pulled off the headphones. "Hi, Martin. Good to see you."

"You too, sweetie."

He was about to plop down in one of the corner lounge chairs when Rianne suddenly came around the corner. "Martin!" Stepping over, she gave him a hug along with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. "I've missed you." She ignored her father's low growl with a roll of her eyes … _good grief_ , _she was a grown women and Roger still acted like she was barely a teenager_ …

Martin smiled. "Missed you too."

Rianne tilted her head towards the kitchen. "You want a beer? I was about to get one for myself." Once again, Rianne ignored her father's growls. _Did he honestly think she still wasn't old enough to drink…?_ _Sometimes it really did feel like she was frozen at 16…_

Returning the kiss, Martin sat down. "Sounds great. Thanks, Rianne."

A minute later with beer in hand, Martin settled back as various conversations started all around him. Although his mind was really elsewhere, Martin did his best at being engaged; which meant running off his mouth as usual. That's the way he acted when everything was good, and damn it, that's the way he was going to appear. Unfortunately, it didn't seem enough to stop Roger from shooting him a suspicious glare every now and again. But the younger man just ignored his partner. He was good at that.

Martin didn't get nervous about much of anything, but even he had to admit that he could feel his stomach flip up and down as they all gathered around the dining table. To his relief, there was no mention of his absences or strange behavior. Despite, however, there being nothing more than the typical conversation, he could still feel the huge gorilla sitting in the middle of the room. But since it wasn't stomping on his head at the moment, he did his best to ignore that feeling as well.

Dinner was the usual, Burbank trying to jump on the table to steal some food, everyone talking over each other, scooping out their favorites from the steaming hot takeout containers; Roger and the kids scrambling at the end of the meal for the last fortune cookie. Triumphant this time, Roger opened the cookie to read the slip of paper. _"Interesting times are ahead of you."_ His eyes cut across the table to Riggs. "Hmmm…"

Martin just ignored him again.

As soon as the meal was finished, he jumped to his feet before anyone else had a chance to move. "My turn to clean, you guys all go relax."

Trish gave him an odd look. "Martin, don't be silly. The kids can handle it this evening."

"No, no, I insist." He smiled broadly in her direction. "It's my punishment for not having been over lately."

A meaningful gaze passed between Roger and Trish but then Roger nodded his head, eyebrows raising slightly. "You heard the man, honey." He stood to his feet motioning for his wife to follow him into the den. "Let's go relax." Trish looked as if she was going to say something else but instead nodded back; although her eyes didn't leave Martin's. She finally turned and followed Roger into the other room.

Martin waited until everyone had filed out of the dining room before he started to gather up the remains of dinner.

It wasn't the easiest task with one arm but luckily since the meal had been take out, there wasn't nearly as much of a mess as usual. If he'd had to scrub out one of Trish's burnt dinner pots in his current condition, he'd probably have to spend the night. The rest of the leftovers could be kept in the containers they had come in – no need to pack up any further for the fridge. No dishes to wash, just some silverware and glasses to put in the dishwasher. Two large boxes were put into a paper bag as a midnight snack for Riggs and Sam. He hoped that by staying in the kitchen, he might be able to avoid any possible questions. Clean up and afterwards plead exhaustion – after all, he was _still sick_ – and then go home. Perhaps not the best of plans, but he hoped it would work. His thoughts were suddenly broken by the sound of footsteps. Glancing over one shoulder, he saw that Rianne had entered the room. He breathed a silent exhale of relief but when Rianne looked at Martin, the expression on her face and in her eyes was just like the ones that Trish would give him. Instead of questioning him about anything, however, she headed for the refrigerator. "Want another beer?"

"Uh oh… what's that? Three beers now? We're getting pretty wild and crazy tonight." Martin gave a chuckle. "Your dad's gonna ground both of us."

Laughing, Rianne reached into the fridge and pulled out the beers. "Well, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't be surprised if he did try it with me."

"Oh, believe me, Rianne… your dad puts me on restriction all the time."

"Actually," she said as she twisted off the caps, handing one bottle over to Martin, "you're probably right about that."

Lifting the beer to his lips, Martin was in the middle of a long swallow when he heard Rianne ask, "Is everything all right?"

His eyes cut over to her as he brought the bottle back down with a jerk. "Of course," he said, rapidly deflecting her query with a question of his own. "How's the world of movie stars?"

"Movie stars? Not quite yet." Arms crossing over, she gave a low sigh, her eyes drifting upwards to look at the ceiling. But then she perked back up, her focus returning to Martin. "I am getting steady work, so I guess I can't complain too much."

"That's great, Rianne. In this town, every waiter, dog walker and shoe salesmen is an actor waiting for that big break." Martin gave her a wink. "Of course, you have more talent in your little pinkie than the rest of them do, so I am not surprised."

"Thanks." Leaning over, Rianne grabbed her purse from the counter, opened it and began to fumble around its contents. "So… speaking of steady work, my next production is coming up. It'll be really cool. It's all about a frontier family out West during the 1800's." She yanked out an envelope. "I have tickets for opening night. I wanted to make sure you had one." Her expression turned a bit shy. "I mean… well, if you wanted to come, of course."

"Are you kidding?" Reaching over, Martin snagged the offered ticket and put it in his back pocket. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." He hugged her as best as he could with his good arm. "I'm always there to support you."

"Really?" She gave a bashful smile.

"Of course." His hug tightened. "You know that."

Her smile widened into a grin, but then just as quickly deflated as she leaned against the countertop. Her eyes dropped downward as one forefinger started to draw agitated circles around the tiled surface. "I just wish Dad would be as enthusiastic about my career choice as you are, Martin."

"Ah, honey, you know your dad. He always acts like an old fart despite my best attempts to cure him of the habit."

She giggled slightly but her unhappy expression didn't go away. "He acts like I'm still a teenager, or even younger."

"I hear that's the way dads operate. Especially with their daughters." He reached over to give her forearm a reassuring squeeze. "Rianne, you know it's just because he worries about you. Acting's a tough business to pin all your aspirations on." He gave a concerned smile of his own. "Besides, sometimes he might have reason to worry. As a detective in Los Angeles, I've had plenty of dealings with those Hollywood types. Every single one of them from the studio heads on down are nothing more than a pack of wolves."

Rianne gave him a serious look. "I think with you and Dad watching out for me, I don't have to worry about them trying anything."

Martin's expression was just as serious. "Damn right. I'd shoot 'em if they ever did."

"See? There is no reason for Dad to act the way he does." Drinking some more beer, Rianne shook her head, eyes still filled with exasperation.

"Truthfully, I don't think it's just that."

"No?"

"It's just some of the …" Martin paused, looking as if he was going over something in his mind, then finally gave a small hitch of his shoulders, one hand lifting. "Even you do have to admit that last play was a … bit… much."

She looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

Martin's eyebrows raised upwards, obviously surprised by her question. "Uhh…" He hesitated a moment, trying to formulate his answer. "Well," he replied, "first off, none of the actors ever said a word of dialogue during the entire play. Unless you account for that crazy howling noise everyone was making. And then second, you sat on a swing the whole time wearing a blindfold and … I don't know… What was that stuff? Some kind of gauze? Whatever it was, you were wrapped up like a mummy… and then the guy that came out in the second act spent his whole time hopping around you in a kangaroo costume."

Now it was Rianne's turn to look surprised. "It was a commentary on the state of postmodern communism and what kind of role it's playing in the world after the dissolution of the USSR." Her tone made it sound as if the plot would have been quite self-evident to anyone watching.

"I see…" Martin's voice trailed off as his mouth twisted to one side, deep in thought. He finally concluded, "Seemed more like a bad acid trip to me."

Rianne gave a slight huff, eyes rolling off to one side. "It's called _conceptual art_ , Martin."

"Yea, well, it nearly conceptualized a heart attack for Roger."

She lifted her shoulders up in a nonchalant manner, head tilted to one side. "At least it wasn't the Vagina Monologues."

"Oh, Jesus. That really would have done him in."

They started to laugh loudly, both of them doubled over at the thought of Roger having to sit through a performance of that particular play – especially with Rianne participating.

Martin finally straightened back up, wiping the tears from his eyes. Laughing hard like that felt good. Over the years, he had always found humor a sure-fire way to help you forget your troubles; if only for a little while. Still chuckling under his breath, he clinked bottles with Rianne and they both gave each other another huge grin before downing some more beer.

After Rianne was finished, she sat her bottle on the countertop. "You sure everything is all right, Martin?"

"Rianne, I already answered that for you earlier." He took another quick drink.

"Just asking again. You seem awfully distracted and Mom says you keep missing dinner." Her expression had turned serious, but the smile she gave him was casual. "That's not like you."

"Oh, just really busy." He gave a shrug. "I mean… You know what work is like for a cop. I've been swamped." Eyes diverting downward, Martin began to fiddle with the beer label, suddenly appearing to be very interested in it. "If the citizens of this fine city would kindly stop murdering each other for a few minutes, maybe I could catch a break."

Rianne's gaze sharpened. "I thought you weren't working any cases."

"Uhh… right…" Martin scrambled a bit. "Well, we're doing most of the paperwork for the open cases… even helping with some cold cases… so, ya know… still swamped."

"Hmmm…" Leaning across the counter, Rianne rested her chin in her hands and gave him the Trish look again. Damn it. Now he was going to have to deal with two of them giving him that same look? How in the hell did Roger handle it?

Rianne suddenly straightened back up. "Just seems like something's on your mind."

Tapping a finger to his temple, Martin broke out into a wide grin. "Ah, come on, just a rock here."

Her smile returned but her brown eyes didn't drop their intense focus from him. "You haven't found someplace else these days to go for dinner, have you?" Her voice was teasing.

"Is that some kind of joke? You all are the only ones that keep letting me come back."

Rianne didn't argue but shook her head all the same; a motion that suggested she didn't believe everything that he was saying. "I wish I could stay and talk some more, but I've got to go. We have our last dress rehearsal tonight."

"Break a leg, honey." Martin's tone was enthusiastic, but Rianne couldn't help but notice he also looked relieved that their conversation was coming to an end. Certainly not the way he usually looked when she had to leave. She scooted over to stand next to him, wrapping one arm around his waist.

"So, I'll see you on opening night?"

He gave a kiss to the top of her head. "Front row."

Rianne nodded, gave one last wave and headed out the kitchen. Martin could hear her as she walked through the den, yelling goodbye to everyone and then the front door slammed shut.

Whew… managed to get through that one.

He grabbed the nearby dishrag, wiped down the table, then stepped over to the sink and started to rinse it out. Before he could finish, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted him once again. This time he turned to see that Trish had entered the kitchen. A wide grin stretched across Martin's face although he could feel his body tense up ever so slightly. "Trish," he said in a casual voice, "go sit back down. I said I was going to clean up."

Eyes narrowing, she ran her gaze down him from head to toe. "What's going on? You look terrible."

"Oh, just fighting off this cold." He followed up the statement with another loud cough – he had made sure to do it periodically throughout dinner to keep his farce going.

Trish gave an agreeable nod, but he doubted that he was fooling her. Surely, she could tell better but for the moment stayed silent. Instead Trish smiled back and went over to the coffee maker, pulled out two mugs from the cabinet and started to fill them.

Oh good… she was just getting some coffee for her and Roger. They both usually had some after dinner. Martin turned back to the sink and the rag he was holding. Doing his best to ignore her presence, Martin now tackled the kitchen sink with a fierce scrubbing, waiting patiently for her to head back to the den. He was still wiping it down when Trish cleared her throat in an obvious attempt to get his attention.

Martin took a look over one shoulder. She was standing next to the dining table and he watched as she put the two mugs down instead of heading back to the den. Lowering herself into one of the chairs, she tapped on the table top. "Sit down." She gave a jerk of her head, directing him to take the chair across from her where the other mug of coffee was resting.

Martin just stared at her. He had the distinct feeling that he was probably looking like a deer in the headlights.

He knew Trish's statement wasn't a suggestion. She had spoken in her usual calm, even voice, but one that showed she meant business. Trish may have been only 5'2" but she sure as hell knew how to command a room; would have made a damn good captain. She tapped again. Martin pointed towards the sink, about to explain that he was still cleaning but she interrupted him before he could get a word out. "Don't worry about the kitchen. Sit down."

Defeated, he sat down.

Picking up the cup, Trish didn't say anything at first. She just blew across the steaming contents, smiling, eyes focused on Martin as he tried his best not to squirm. After another minute, she murmured, "You've hardly been around lately."

"Thought I'd just give you a break." He gave a laugh. "You've got to get tired of seeing my face here all the time."

For once, Trish didn't match his smile with one of her own. "No. Now tell me what's going on."

Reaching over, Martin picked up his own mug, taking a sip, buying some time as he tried to figure out an answer that would satisfy her without giving anything away. He finally said, "Nothing." _Crap, that was lame, he thought to himself. That was the best he could think of?_

It was as if Trish hadn't heard his answer or if she did, she was ignoring it. "There's not anything happening at work, is there?"

"No."

"Is something personal going on? Something we should be aware of?" Her voice was beginning to sound worried.

"No."

"Is it some kind of trouble you're in?"

"No."

"Anything we can help with in some way?"

"No." Martin flashed one of his trademark grins. "Really nothing's wrong." Martin had always been good at reading people and being a detective was an occupation that helped to hone that talent even more so. But this time, he couldn't figure out what was behind the look in Trish's eyes. All he knew was that it made him feel miserable. Tring to bolster both of their moods, he grinned wider. "Everyone needs to quit being so silly. Everything is fine. Like I said, I've just been under the weather."

Trish remained silent, one corner of her mouth angling downward in obvious disappointment at his answer. Her arms interlocking firmly across her chest, she gave a tight smile from across the table. There was no question now about what the look in her eyes meant – she knew he wasn't telling the truth and she wasn't happy about it. Unfolding her arms, she reached across the table to put a hand on his forearm. "I do hope you know you can tell us if you need anything."

Martin nodded. "I know."

Standing, Trish murmured quietly, "Good to hear that, Martin." She gave a small nod of her head, realizing she wasn't going to get any further that evening; of course, Martin knew that wasn't going to stop her from trying again. She headed back into the den.

As soon as she left, he grabbed the dishrag, finished wiping down the counter and then threw it on top of the washer. Lying to Trish was one of the hardest things and made him feel shitter than just about anything else. He tried to shove the feeling down but when he couldn't, he just said goodbye to everyone and practically ran out of the house. Even forgot his damn leftovers.


	5. Chapter 5

It was funny how the exact same environment could produce such different effects. For a long time, Martin hadn't enjoyed silence. Silence made him think too much and so he almost always had the TV on. Thinking too much was rarely a good idea. Over time, however, he'd gotten better with it. He'd realized that sometimes silence could be rather enjoyable – sitting out on the beach; the only sound one could hear being the waves breaking over the rocks. There could be good silences; in fact, it could even be peaceful – although, he still knew better than to hang out with his thoughts for too long.

And then there was this kind of silence. It made him wish for a TV nearly as bad as the other times.

The three of them were in the car – Roger, Trish and himself and it was deathly quiet. In fact, as they made their way back to the house, no one had said a word. Okay, Martin had tried to talk a couple of times, but soon enough realized it was a really bad idea and was going to get them nowhere. For once, he decided to shut up and not push any of Roger's buttons. From his position in the back seat, he looked over at his partner. The older detective was sitting ramrod straight as he drove and even though Martin couldn't see his face, there was no mistaking his furious body language. Martin's head then swiveled over to Trish who was sitting in the passenger seat. Her gaze was focused outside the window, lips pressed together. Basically, everyone was avoiding Roger; at least as best as one could when you were all stuck together in a moving vehicle. Crossing his foot onto the opposite leg, Martin drummed a rapid beat along the side of his boot, his other hand fiddling with his shirt collar. He hadn't gone as far as to wear a tie but had worn his sports jacket. Despite his very relaxed view on fashion, he did actually have one tie and coat, although the only reason Martin ever pulled them out was for the days he had to testify in court. One of the few times he tried to look civilized. He had, however, thought the sports jacket would be appropriate for the special event; unfortunately, it was now feeling as constrictive as a strait jacket… at least he wouldn't have to dislocate his shoulder to get out of this one. After about ten more minutes, Trish suddenly reached over and turned on the radio. Martin was greatly relieved that there was finally something to break the tense atmosphere. As the next song came on, Trish began to sing along with the lyrics, her expression lifting a bit.

"You sure have a beautiful voice, Trish."

Turning in the seat, she gave him an appreciative smile. "Thank you, Martin."

It was the only exchange of conversation for the rest of the ride.

Finally reaching the house, Martin and Trish quickly bailed out of the car and went straight down the walkway, eager to escape. They'd made it almost to the front door when they both suddenly stopped, the two of them realizing at the same time that Roger wasn't with them. Turning around, they could see Roger's unmoving silhouette still sitting in the car. An exasperated look taking over her face, Trish shook her head in Martin's direction, her mouth still nothing more than an aggravated slash.

"You want me to go get him?"

"Yes, that would be a good idea…" Trish swiveled on one dress heel as she muttered under her breath, "… because if I do it, I might smack him."

Martin watched her go inside the house, heaved deeply and made his way back down the driveway. He stood, waiting, at the driver's side door. After a minute with no acknowledgement from the older man, Riggs knocked on the window. Roger rolled it down, although his gaze remained focused straight ahead.

"What?" His voice did not sound happy.

"Uhmm, well, Rog, we're home."

"Yeah, I know Riggs. I was the one that drove us here."

"Uhmm… okay… so you getting out?"

"No."

"I see…" Martin ran one hand through the mess that he called his hair, afterwards, doing his best to pat down the unruly strands he knew were sticking up every which a way. "It… it wasn't … that bad."

"Wasn't that bad?!" Roger sounded like he couldn't decide if he was going to explode in rage or start to cry. "Did you see her, Riggs!? For the love of GOD, did you see her!?" Martin took a slight step back as his partner cradled his head in his hands and then leaned against the steering wheel. "My little baby? Did you see my little baby?" Suddenly his head jerked back up, hands now gripping the steering wheel as his narrowed eyes shifted to one side, glittering darkly in Martin's direction. "Wait a minute," he growled, "actually no. You better not have seen her!"

As hard as it was to imagine, this play had been even weirder than the last one. The plot had seemed so innocent the way Rianne had explained it; the story of a family eeking out a hardscrabble life on the Kansas plains. To Martin, it sounded like an episode of ' _Little House on the Prairie_ '. Little had he known that apparently people went around half naked in the 1800's. He was pretty sure he had never come across that tidbit in any school book. Although he had never paid any attention in the classroom, he did feel sure that he would have remembered that. Every cast member wore swim suits, with all of the women, Rianne included, in skimpy bikinis throughout the entire play. A play that once again made no sense. At least with her last role, she had been wrapped up head to toe. Martin couldn't wait to hear what her explanation for this production was going to be. He had originally guessed that it was a commentary on the evils of capitalism…. but then he overheard one of the other cast mates talking about the feminist journey through a patriarchal world... _whatever in the hell that meant.._.

After the play had finished, the three of them had gone backstage to give Rianne flowers, hugs and kisses. Roger didn't have much to say at that point, other than the grumbling he did under his breath. Martin knew his partner had tried his best as he congratulated her, but there was no hiding his pained look. It made it all obviously clear that Rianne had not gotten her acting talents from her father. Trish – as usual – seemed to take it in stride; not to say she was probably all that happy but knowing how much it meant to her oldest daughter, she still kept a smile on her face; and despite the lack of clothing, was proud of the fact that Rianne had performed the lead role. Unfortunately, Rianne knew her father was unhappy and instead of being excited on her opening night, she had looked like she was ready to cry. They'd all gone out to dinner afterwards but despite Martin and Trish's best attempts, it had been an awkward affair. Roger had snapped at everyone and Rianne stared at her plate the whole evening.

Martin gave a reassuring smile to his partner. "Don't worry, Rog. My eyes were closed the whole time."

Roger's hands tightened around the steering wheel so hard his veins were starting to bulge, but he didn't say anything until a minute later when he gave a slow shake of his head. "Ya know, I always figured you would be the death of me, Riggs, but now, I'm not so sure."

"Thanks… I guess…" One hand went to his shirt pocket and he cursed silently when he remembered there wasn't a pack there. Cursed again when he also remembered that he hadn't picked up more nicotine gum either. Martin blew his breath out between pursed lips, his head tilted upwards, trying to make out where the Big Dipper was. Of course, with the way the night sky looked like in Los Angeles, you could easily forget there were any stars up there at all. After another minute he finally gave up and focused his attention back on Roger, saying, "You just have to try and look at it the right way."

"The right way?"

"Sure. You need to look beyond the surface. Focus on the deep philosophical underpinnings that these plays are using to enlighten the audience." _At least that was how Rianne described them, he thought to himself._

For the first time, Roger's head turned completely around to face his partner. "What in the hell are you talking about?" The older man's nostrils flared in anger but his eyes held a level of confusion. "What happened, Riggs? Did you fall on your head and I don't know about it?"

"Come on, Rog. How many times have I fallen on my head? Like that's gonna make a difference."

"True."

Riggs continued. "These just aren't your normal plays. It's not like you're going to see a high school production of ' _The Sound of Music'_. This is important stuff." Martin tried to keep his expression and voice very serious, along with just a touch of intellectual haughtiness for good measure. It wasn't an easy task for him; the effort involved was enough to make his jaw ache. "You have to understand that it's - _conceptual - art_." He placed great emphasis on the last two words.

"Conceptual what?" Roger's frown deepened. "Conceptual art? What in the hell does that even mean?"

Riggs gave a wide grin. "I have absolutely no idea."

Roger laid his head back against the steering wheel.

Despite the situation, Riggs couldn't help but look amused, although he did manage not to laugh out loud. "Look, Rog, you know she's not trying to torment you on purpose." When Roger didn't reply, Riggs added, "I know it's not easy, but try not to be so hard on her."

Roger growled again.

 _Jeez_ , _thought Riggs,_ _the guy was beginning to sound like a rabid dog_.

"Easy for you to say. You're not a father."

"That's true." Riggs shoved a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, staring down at his boots. After another minute, he looked back up. "Maybe you can still try and be happy for her. She's getting to do what she loves. That's a hell of a lot more than most people can say."

Roger gave a long, deep sigh. "I suppose you're right." He nodded, his voice turning softer, "And I am proud of her."

"I know that. You might want to make sure she does."

His body relaxing ever so slightly, Roger released his stranglehold on the steering wheel. "I just wish she could do it with more clothes on," he grumbled irritably. "Ever since that damn condom commercial it's just gone downhill."

"Come on, partner." Riggs opened the car door, taking ahold of Roger's arm, gently coaxing the older man out of the vehicle. "You aren't going to solve anything by staying out here in the car all night."

"I guess not." Although he still looked miserable, Roger got out and started walking towards the house. Riggs followed him but then came to an abrupt stop before reaching the front door, motioning towards his truck. "I'm just gonna head home."

"What?" Roger glanced down at his watch, noting the time. "You're not coming in?" His frustrated expression turned sharp as both arms folded across his chest. Sure, it was getting late, but he knew his younger partner was a night owl, and that fact only led to Roger becoming immediately suspicious; besides Riggs never went straight back home; he always came inside... even if only for just a little while.

"Not tonight." Yawning, Riggs cracked his neck then gave a shake of his head. "Long day."

Roger's eyes narrowed further. "Long day of what? We didn't even work today."

"Yeah, well, gonna go anyway, " Riggs said with a shrug. "Sam misses me when I'm gone too long." He pivoted on one boot, away from the other detective. "See ya tomorrow at the station."

Roger stood in the walkway, staring as Riggs slipped into the truck. Still frowning, his focus never wavered from his partner as he watched Riggs wave goodbye and pull out into the street. Once again, the older detective did not look happy.

Leaving the house, Riggs maneuvered the truck around the winding neighborhood streets. Although he felt bad about it, he adjusted the truck's rearview mirror, eyes scanning behind him. He didn't think that Roger would try to follow him, but at the same time, there was a part of him that wasn't completely sure; after all, his partner had tried it in the past, and now considering his recent behavior... There had been no mistaking the look on Roger's face and although Riggs wished he could have gone in long enough to avoid raising any suspicions, he was on a tight timetable.

No sign of Roger, he finally entered the freeway; where, of course, he headed in the completely opposite direction of his trailer.

* * *

Shit. If they had picked a post office any further away, Martin was pretty sure he would have ended up driving into Tijuana. It irritated him all to hell, but then at the same time, he realized it was for the best. He certainly didn't want anything to be traced back to him. Shit, after all, he'd just gotten back on the job. Last thing he wanted was to be kicked off the force... or worse… So, looked like his only choice was this stupid cloak and dagger bullshit. It still irritated him though. He parked, hopped out of the truck and once inside, started running his eyes along the bank of post office boxes until they landed on the number he was looking for. Inserting the key, Martin opened it, grabbed an envelope and shoved it into a jacket pocket.

It wasn't until he was back inside the truck that he pulled the envelope out and tore it open to read the contents. His eyebrows angled downward in confusion, then suspicion. _This was all they were asking of him?_ _It didn't make sense_... This situation was already starting to smell fishier than the days when he went to hang out at the docks. He stared out the truck's window for a long time, mulling things over. Finally, he shoved the paper back inside the envelope, grabbed a lighter from the dashboard and set the whole thing afire. Martin watched it disintegrate into ash and then got back on the freeway.

* * *

Martin always did his best to avoid computers. All he wanted to do was be on the streets. Running investigations and undercover operations was everything he needed from his profession; so, like most detectives, he really hated paperwork... and he hated computer work even more. At least with old-fashioned paperwork, when a pen was out of ink, you just grabbed a damn refill ... or went to sharpen a pencil. These days when a computer went down, it was a call to the IT people, at least an hour long wait and then having his already razor thin level of patience be tested by listening as the technician always gibbered on about details he didn't give two shits about.

A long string of curse words bounced around the empty squad room as Martin growled, took a deep breath and started typing again.

He had to admit that even with both arms fully functional, he wasn't much beyond a two-finger typist anyway and now his current production level had been cut by yet an additional 50%; which basically put him on the same speed level as a sloth. A considerable difference and one he didn't appreciate, especially when he was doing something he really shouldn't have been doing. Sighing, Martin leaned back in the desk chair as he grabbed the bag of chips that were next to his computer. Tore it open with his teeth and then shoved a handful into his mouth.

"Hey, Riggs, working awfully late, ain't ya?"

As one hand quickly clicked on the computer's mouse to close out the page he'd been on, Martin turned around at the question to find one of the station's night custodians standing by the door. He was one of those guys that insisted on sweeping his thinning grey hair over into a ridiculous comb-over that never fooled anyone as to how much hair he really had. Despite his slight build, the man's forearms were muscular from years of physical work and judging from his pale complexion, Riggs figured he must have been working the night shift for a damn long time. At the very least, he'd been cleaning at LAPD for so long he was a fixture to anyone that worked late. A mop was gripped in one hand and he obviously had been making his way down the hallway to the RHD bullpen. Lifting his other hand, the man pointed towards the wall clock hanging across the room. Martin followed his finger, his eyes opening a bit... _Jeez... 3:35 am_... The older gentleman leaned against the cleaning cart he was pushing around. It wasn't that unusual for him to find the detective working in the station at this time. After being widowed, Martin would come in at all hours of the night. But it had been quite a while since that had happened. "Paper work that important?"

Yawning widely, Martin nodded in the man's direction. "Hey, Billy," he said in greeting and then gave a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah... a little behind." One hand lifting upward as if surprised by the time, he shrugged again. "Guess I didn't realize just how late it was."

"Hmmm... Letting your partner sleep, I guess?"

"Roger needs his beauty sleep." Martin flashed a bright grin at the custodian as he tapped on his chest. "I, on the other hand, wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed by nature." Not true, but he still managed to get going a hell of a lot faster than Roger.

Billy just gave a snort as Martin gestured to the folders piled up in front of him. "I'm being approved for full duty starting on Monday. I sure as hell don't want any stray paperwork holding that up." Something that wasn't a complete lie. Reaching over, Martin picked up a pen, opened one of the thick files and started scribbling across the pages as if to prove his point.

Billy didn't respond for a moment, just reached into his supply of cleaning products. Pulling out a cloth he started rubbing it across the open glass door. "So," he murmured in a casual voice, "they're actually letting you back on the streets?" One of his eyebrows lifted in disbelief.

Martin's head jerked back in Billy's direction. "Of course!" he exclaimed loudly, acting quite offended by the question; although he was obviously joking. "Don't you feel safer knowing that I'm out there?"

The man hesitated, looking unsure of how to answer but then a grin spilled across his face. "I guess as long as you focus all that energy on the bad guys... yeah, sure." He suddenly threw the rag back onto the cart. "I'll let ya be... don't want to disturb all that important work. I'll just come back later when you're gone." Turning the cart around, he steered it back into the hallway as he called out over one shoulder, "Try not to get yourself shot this time."

"I'll do my best to avoid it."

Martin watched as Billy shuffled his way down the fluorescent lit corridor and once he was gone, closed the folder and slipped it back into the large pile in front of him. His attention focused back on the computer, he brought the page up again, studying it for a moment longer then clicked on the print command. He closed all the screens out then turned off the computer. Finished, Martin hopped up to the main printer, grabbed the papers it had just spit out and read over them. Gave a shake of his head and folding them up, slipped it all into his inside jacket pocket.


End file.
